My father's father worked with wood,

And clean he planed the pine.

And when he sawed a board in two,

He cut it on the line.

His hammer drove the nailhead home.

The joints were tight and true.

The sawdust in his crowded shop

Smelt warm and sweet and new.

The boards he used were sound and dry.

They did not shrink or twist.

His eye was better than a rule,

And skill was in his wrist.

I hope that he would understand

A thing he never heard:

I train myself to learn his art,

Who build with word and word.